She can swallow knives, she can swallow lives, golden black stare but the night of your demise.
-Gyspy Woman
So just as a quick note, this story is about an OC I made up really quickly. This is a few drabbles about her life, just a bit of fun. I have to excuse the Russian, I used Google Translate. I don't trust my month of Russian in writing. Enjoy!
Ikebukuro, Tokyo.
It was night. It was alive. 'It' being it.
The city lights battle the night sky stars, and win, of course. The stars retreat. No-one ever wins against the city lights. Which is why to stand out in this city you need to exceptional. Particularly exceptional.
And she was. This girl was par-...
No.
She wasn't. Just another normal, bland foreigner in Tokyo. Another body in the mass of people, another pair of eyes, another pair of shoes. She was in no way exceptional. Just like the rest of the humans occupying this neighbourhood, except the more than obvious exceptions. Exceptions are exceptional, as a rule. ALWAYS.
Everything about the way this foreigner held herself screamed her personality. Tall and careless, she was leaning back, hips jutted out slightly. Her legs hip distance apart. One hand was lying in her sleeveless denim jacket pocket, another lazily holding a crumpled piece of paper. Her face was wearing an expression of seriousness, carelessness, concentration and slight bemusement. A juxtaposition in itself. Which sucked, because juxtaposition was the word she could never spell right, or even fully grasp the meaning of.
Сопоставление. Sopostavlenie. What a difficult word.
The cigarette held, also lazily, in her slightly open mouth was almost finished. You could almost here protesting.
No! No no! I'm almost out! You bitch, put me out! Pay attention, you drugged up nicotine addict!
Her head was raised slightly to read the sign.
RUSSIA SUSHI.
She blinked, and slowly tuned into the surroundings. The street was crowded, fulled with eyes and shoes that were busy with the small space their lives took up in the ocean of Tokyo. All talking, shopping, laughing...being. She heard the voice.
"Sushi! You eat Russian sushi!"
She lowered her head, barely intrigued but focused. Sopostavlenie.
A huge, dark man in white and blue clothes was handing out pamphelts while speaking broken japanese.
She made a noise that no-one else in the world heard, a small, insignificant "Hmn.", causing her chest to rise up and shrink back down quickly. Still, not one other of the 6 billion people in the world heard. She did, so that was fine.
She reached up, took the cigarette from her mouth (Yes! Thank you, you nicotine zombie! Have fun burning my brothers!) dropped it to the ground with a lazy and graceful flick. She kept her eyes fixed on the man as she walked, or actually, more like sauntered like a lionness towards him. Of course, taking care to step on the dimming cigarette. Her dark jeans strained against her thigh as she strode forward, her boots clunking on the pavement, jacket swishing.
She reached him.
"Vy Seymon Brezhnev?" Are you Simon Brezhnev?
He looked down at hearing native Russian, to see a henna haired, hawk-eyed foreigner. Who was not exceptional. He smiled.
"Da." Yes.
"Da, Promah?" Yes, Miss?
She smiled gently.
"Marya. Marya Demidova." Her name.
Marya looked up intently, seriously, kindly. Juxtaposition, again.
"Mne nuzhna vasha pomoshch." I need your help.